Fearful Symmetry
by fleetwood-mouse
Summary: Later, a voice in Seb's head asked him whether he might not have been better off with the tiger. (MorMor)


He hadn't thought about it in years, how the tiger had smiled at him in the darkness.

The air had been damp but warm somehow, warmer than any drainpipe had the right to be, but it had taken his eyes so long to adjust—he had felt the torturous progress of his pupils expanding as his blood pounded urgently beneath his skin and he had racked his brain for anything he might try, anything that could give him a leg up, because what advantage could he possibly have over a fucking jungle cat?

And as the fluid, inky blackness had faded to chiaroscuro, he had seen it there—had begun to see the outline of the shadow that meant it was there. And it had been crouching, impossible muscles coiled spring-tight, and it had been waiting, and Seb had seen—not with his eyes but through the lens of some ancient, Neanderthal memory that had been living dormant at the base of his spine—how it had been _smiling_, and he had realised with a grudging acceptance that grated against the edge of his shrieking, animal fear, that this was it: if he could not be enough now, he would never have the chance to be.

This was the kind of story that some people wrote in to monthly magazines, bookended, inevitably, with _life changing_ and _carpe diem _and _what-really-matters_, and that other types of people tamped deep down until some loose night when drink or something stronger dragged it back up to whoever would listen. But Seb didn't quite fall under either type; Seb was a survivor. So he wrapped up the memory together with his scar and didn't think about either one of them unless he had too.

That didn't mean he'd forgotten, however. When he saw the smile again, he recognised it immediately (not wrapped up so tight after all), cutting through the dusty rays of light filtering in through the window of the empty warehouse. Just as familiar was the lap of a surprisingly delicate pink tongue, peeking out to clean the gleaming white surface of a—a tooth, a human tooth, not a fang. Seb took a deep breath and shifted atop the crate where he was seated, turning his back to the open window.

"Hey there, sharpshooter," came the languid purr, and those eyes—Seb knew those glowing eyes, too. "You've been making quite a name for yourself, haven't you."

It was absurd, he thought, how closely a few pacing steps could resemble the circling, stalking path whose padded footsteps still echoed enthrallingly in his ears. He said nothing, sat perfectly still, not even betraying his recognition by running his hand over the barrel of his trusted rifle to allay his fear—he had the distinct sense that there was no possible way it could be a secret, no matter how convincingly he may have thought he was hiding it.

"Cat's got your tongue, then?" The man paused a metre's distance from Seb, and his high, jangling laugh muffled the sharp echo of his expensive footwear on the concrete floor. "You'll have to excuse me," he said, eyebrow raised. "I love a good pun."

There was cotton in Seb's throat but liquid fire in the pit of his stomach, rising steadily along with the blood in his veins. This was a feeling he knew (hard as he might have tried to forget it), and God, he never would have guessed it was something he could _miss_.

He wet his lips. "I have a job to do," he said, and his voice wasn't exactly the hoarse, strangled voice of a rabbit ensnared but it was not the voice he knew as his own.

"What a busy little bee." The man laughed softly as he took one step forward—and Seb couldn't name it as a sneer or a leer or a smile, but whatever it was it felt like a magnet—and another, until the toes of his wing-tipped shoes touched Seb's crate.

Sitting, Seb's head was level with the man's collar bone. He knew that many people found him imposing, even without his rifle (tucked between his thighs and pointed toward the floor), even before his scar, but he rejected the impulse to draw himself up to his full height for a confrontation. There was a time to puff out, to intimidate one's foe, but there was also a time to sit still and watch and wait.

"Jim Moriarty," he said, and his breath rustled Seb's hair. His voice had a lilt to it that Seb couldn't quite place—more than an accent, it felt like the uninhibited glee of a cat at play with some poor captive cowering beastie. "Good to meet you."

Jim made no move to shake hands, of course. Not that Seb would have let go of his rifle for a second. He gritted his teeth and gave a small nod. "You know me, then?"

"Like I said, Sebastian, you've made quite a name for yourself." Jim stared searchingly, expectantly into Seb's face, as if he suspected he might have breathed life into this piece of clay and was waiting for it to move.

"Like_ I_ said, Jim," Seb crossed his arm over the rifle and nodded towards the open window, "I've got a job to do. So if you don't mind..."

"_Mind_?" Jim's voice was incredulous, and he cocked his head sideways with sardonic puzzlement. "We both know _you're_ the one who minds, now don't we."

He was so close Seb could smell him, all expensive cologne and Savile Row and hair product, but nothing underneath—not a hint of skin or sweat or fear—and he thought to himself, _Jim Moriarty, what __**are**__ you?_

Jim's eyes were hard and dark, and as he spoke ("But if it's a job you want..."), they dropped to Seb's mouth and Seb's breath caught in his throat, and he followed them downwards with a delicate motion of his head ("I can find something for you to do."), and then they were nearly eye to eye, Jim's eyebrows almost brushing the tip of Seb's nose, black eyes turned upward, pink lips parted.

Seb didn't move; he didn't even breathe because there was a time to act and a time when all you could do was wait for the tiger to pounce. Then Jim tilted his head gracefully downward like a schoolgirl at prayer, his mouth centimetres from Seb's, and he just _inhaled_, nostrils flaring, and Seb felt his own lungs respond (_he's smelling me, fucking smelling me_, he thought giddily), fighting to suck in more oxygen because maybe this warehouse was enormous but all of the air had gone out of it.

And the man—Jim, this sudden, manic intruder—he just _stayed_ like that, chest puffed up high and tight to hold Seb's scent in his lungs, and he reached one hand out slowly, fingers brushing across Seb's workshirt as if feeling the lapel of an expensive suit like his own, trailing a cool path over Seb's feverish skin through the cloth to slide a small slip of paper into the breast pocket.

His hand lingered for a moment. "Jim Moriarty," he whispered, and the crown of his head brushed against Seb's jaw, inhaling against Seb's neck. "Don't forget the name."

All of Seb's muscles were tense and singing; he had to fight the tremor trying to shiver up his spine as Jim snapped his head back to look up, eyes blazing like a lantern, and he slowly traced the line of Seb's scar—chin up to cheekbone—with the tip of his nose, like an animal, and stopped, hung almost, to let out his breath in a hiss at Seb's temple.

Seb's heart was pounding and his eyes were closed, and it was foolish, he knew, to turn his back like this, to give it all over entirely to a predator who already had every advantage but he couldn't imagine opening them, couldn't imagine watching what was so clearly going to be his undoing, and so he held his breath, cock hard in his pants, and it wasn't even until he heard the sharp crack of footsteps that he understood that Jim had stepped back, Jim was leaving because he had Seb marked for later.

He didn't even open his eyes when he heard the door swing closed, but as soon as the sound reached his ears, his fingers scrambled for his zip and he didn't stop to think about why because there were times when instinct was the only thing left, and so he slipped one hand into his pants and moved it frantically, biting hard on his lower lip but not managing to stifle the desperate, animal sounds welling up in his chest. His cock was already slick in his hand, and when he came—gasping, doubled over, overwhelmed—the barrel of his rifle scraped back and forth against the floor in time with his orgasm, the jerking and twitching of his cock in his hand, and somewhere in his mind, Seb knew he should lay it down or at least steady it but he wasn't sure he even existed outside of the spasms of his body, and it clattered to the floor like a horseshoe as he slumped back against the wall.

Later, as Seb cleaned himself up as best he could (job abandoned; mark alive for another day) and checked his pocket for the rectangular weight of Jim's business card, a voice in his head asked him whether he might not have been better off with the tiger. He shook it off as best he could, but he could not shake the distinct feeling that it would not be the last time he wondered this.

NOTES:  
I don't know how this works in terms of MorMor; I've only read a little and this is my first try writing it. But I had this image of Moran pursuing that man-eating tiger in the drain and I couldn't stop wondering how he must have felt, and then I had the first line and then all this happened. The ending kind of surprised me, there, when it reared its head, but I guess what I mean to say is wow, that was fun and I don't know if it's headcanon-compliant or anything but I hope you enjoyed it!

Also, I was bowled over by how much this reminds me of Moriarty:

"In what distant deeps or skies  
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?  
On what wings dare he aspire?  
What the hand dare seize the fire?"  
—William Blake, "The Tyger"

The whole thing, really, but that part especially.

And of course: no beta and no Britpick; eternal gratitude for feedback and criticism!


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